


A Vermillion to One

by Lyrstzha



Category: Keen Eddie
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, First Kiss, M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrstzha/pseuds/Lyrstzha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Eddie spends his first Christmas in London bickering with Fiona, winding up his partner, getting caught in the middle of Pippin family dynamics, and chasing the Vermillion Vigilante. And finding that all of that makes him happier than he expects, especially the bits with his partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Vermillion to One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [out_there](https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/gifts).



After a long day and half the night spent chasing down an extortion ring, Eddie is actually glad that tomorrow's Christmas Eve. Even though the holidays always make him cranky, he could really use the rest.

He gathers his coat and heads for the car park to wait for his partner and the promise of a ride home, nodding to Carol as he joins her in waiting for the lift.

He eyes her red and green outfit and decides to attempt a festive mood. "Hey there, Miss Moneypenny. Filled with the Christmas spirit?"

"Yes, thank you, Detective," she says primly, stepping into the lift as the doors open. Then, as she turns to face him again, the world seems to tilt and her hair swirls wildly in a wind that Eddie knows can't possibly exist. "Totally filled," she breathes, with a slow, sultry wink. "_Over_ and _over_ and _over_ again."

The lift doors slide closed, and Eddie is left blinking after her with his mouth open. One of these days, he's got to figure out how she does that.

A moment later, Monty walks up beside him, glances at the unlit call button, and frowns quizzically. "What are you doing?"

Eddie closes his mouth and waves a hand at the lift doors weakly. "Something's wrong with the elevator," he says.

Monty reaches out and presses the call button, and the doors slide open obediently. He looks at Eddie and raises an eyebrow. "Seems to be in working order now," he observes.

"Not that kind of wrong," Eddie objects, rubbing his fingers against his throbbing temples. "Never mind."

Monty accepts this with a shrug, and leads the way into the waiting lift. "Ready to go?" he asks.

"Please," Eddie says fervently. "I just want to go home and sleep until New Year's."

***************

But Eddie isn't actually asleep when Monty calls shortly after noon the next day. He _should_ be. He'd _like_ to be. It's Christmas Eve, and he is supposedly off work today. He ought to be catching up on his sleep and spending a lazy day in his boxers and a tattered robe—to annoy Fiona, if nothing else. But no, he's wide awake, listening to her caroling Christmas songs with Nigel aggressively loudly as they decorate the flat for the party they're throwing this evening before they leave to spend the night and Christmas day with her parents. Because the world is a cold and unfeeling place, and his holidays inevitably suck.

Speaking of which. "What?" Eddie grunts into his phone.

"About our day off," Monty starts.

"No," Eddie stops him. "Don't tell me; let me guess. A jolly, fat man in a red suit was caught breaking and entering?"

"Well. Not exactly, but surprisingly close, from what I've heard so far."

"Yeah. Of course it is." Eddie presses the heel of his hand into his left eye until colors bloom fantastically behind the closed lid.

"Pick you up in twenty, dude," Monty answers, as cheerfully as if it wasn't supposed to be his day off, too.

Eddie presses the 'end' button on his phone viciously. "God, I hate Christmas," he groans up at the ceiling.

Pete snarls, apparently in agreement.

***************

By the time Eddie drags himself out of bed and sniffs his way to relatively clean clothes, Fiona and Nigel have enthusiastically massacred "Deck the Halls" and "Joy to the World", and they're just beginning on "Jingle Bells". Eddie slams the cabinet doors extra loudly as he gets some cereal and a cup of coffee, but it doesn't help.

The afternoon sun shines brightly through the window, and it looks like a gorgeous day outside. _At least it isn't snowing_, Eddie thinks to himself. There's no pristine blanket of shining white to make everything picture perfect. If there was, he might just have to get back in bed.

"Good afternoon and happy Christmas!" Fiona chirps at him with sarcastic cheer, her hands full of tinsel. She is, of course, wearing a santa hat. "I thought that you, as a sad and deservedly unloved person, would be spending today and tomorrow huddled in your underwear waiting for the ghost of Christmas past." She breezes by him and begins to tack the tinsel over the window.

"Ha ha," Eddie mutters, taking a huge gulp of hot coffee and losing the rest of his clever rejoinder in a cough as his eyes water at the burn in his throat.

She tosses her hair and gives him a smile full of teeth over her shoulder. "Which, in case you are unaware, is a literary reference from something we evolved humans like to call a book. You _may_ have heard of them."

"Actually," Eddie rasps, swallowing painfully, "I've read _A Christmas Carol_. In fact, like most people who got an education, I read it in college." He snaps his fingers. "Oh, wait. You wouldn't know about that. I'm sorry, am I making you feel intellectually inadequate?"

Fiona makes a shrill noise a lot like a kettle reaching boiling. "The only living creature who feels intellectually inadequate with _you_ is your disgusting dog, Eddie. You make the average pubic louse seem positively brilliant."

Eddie smiles at her with every appearance of affability. "Well, I don't have your familiarity with pubic lice, of course. I'll have to take your word for it."

"Aaaah!" Fiona tosses the leftover tinsel down and stomps one foot. "No!" She says, shaking a finger at him. "No. I will _not_ have you ruin my Christmas with your snide remarks."

Eddie shrugs at her, still smiling. "You started it."

"I did not!" She huffs, then pauses as he raises an eyebrow at her. She amends, petulantly, "And if I _did_, it doesn't count because you've been scornful and stroppy all week."

"Have not," Eddie denies, purely by reflex. "And 'stroppy' isn't even a real word," he adds querulously, even though he's been in London long enough to have heard that one before.

"Have so," she insists, ignoring his linguistic quibble. "When Nigel offered you a cup of his special mulled wine last night, you congratulated him on finding a clever way to disguise the taste of cheap wine."

"Well, yeah," Eddie admits grudgingly. "But it is. That could've been _Ripple_ under all those cloves and you wouldn't know."

"And _then_, when I was hanging the mistletoe over the door, you said even a whole tree wouldn't be enough."

"Hey, I was just pointing out that trying to force unsuspecting visitors to kiss you when they walk in looks a little desperate."

"You, Eddie," Fiona pronounces with finality, hands on her hips, "in addition to all of your other many loathsome qualities, are a Grinch."

"I have nothing against Christmas," Eddie objects. "As long as it stays on the other side of the calendar where it belongs, we're good." There are times—say, holidays like this one—when being a lone wolf isn't all he cracks it up to be, but he isn't about to admit that to Fiona.

In the background, he can hear a knock on the door and Nigel scurrying to answer it. Eddie shoves the last of his cereal into his mouth hurriedly and drops the bowl in the sink.

"Your problem is that you're such a miserable creature that you can't stand to see other people happy," Fiona declares. "If you were—"

Just then Monty sticks his head into the kitchen, and Eddie smiles brightly at Fiona. "That sweater really brings out your eyes," he interrupts her gleefully, completely derailing her sentence and leaving her speechless and off-balance. "Let's go," he says to Monty, wanting to get out while he's ahead.

"Are you sure you two wouldn't like to be alone?" Monty asks with an eloquently arched brow, even as he moves to leave with Eddie.

Eddie rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Monty's back to propel him out the front door.

"I hate you!" Fiona's voice calls out just before the door closes behind them.

Eddie opens it long enough to yell back, "I hate you, too!" He knows he's got a real, honest grin without a trace of sarcasm on his face, but it's okay, because she can't see him. The novel thought occurs to Eddie that just possibly this Christmas might not suck as hard as they usually do for him. It's been a long time since he spent it with people who are anything like family rather than watching reruns with Pete over a carton of Chinese food. Speaking of people who are anything like family, albeit the crazy sort of relatives he ought to be keeping locked in the attic or something...

He turns away to find Monty shaking his head gravely. "Have the two of you considered couples counseling?" Monty inquires solicitously.

"You never had a kid sister, did you?" Eddie mutters, settling himself into Monty's car.

"Never. Just me and Perfect Tom." Monty says the name with a kind of resigned wince.

Eddie's noticed that Monty doesn't mention his brother often, but when he does, there's a certain long-suffering quality to his tone. It's intriguing, so he can't resist prodding a little. "Perfect Tom, huh? Sounds like a hard act to follow."

"You have _no_ idea." Monty rolls his eyes heavenward. "When I go home for dinner tonight, do you know what I'll hear? It's always the same thing. 'Oh Monty, your brother will be in Parliament soon. Perhaps he can arrange for some kind of real career for you', or 'Monty, are you still living in that dinky flat with a roommate? Why don't you let us help you get something more suitable, like Tom has'. _And_ they'll try to give me money, as if I can't keep myself in petrol and chips." Monty, clearly warming to his subject, punctuates each point with a jerk of his chin that makes his hair swing.

Eddie watches in fascination; not many things really seem to get under Monty's skin like this. Mostly things just slide off his glib exterior, but right now there's a flush blooming across his cheekbones and his eyes are flashing. The sight of him in this state is rare enough that it's almost worth the fact that Monty's weaving in and out of traffic in a truly alarming way as he gets more agitated.

"But not Tom, oh no," Monty continues, with barely a pause for breath, swerving around a slow-moving lorry violently enough to make Eddie grab at the dash. "Not Perfect Tom. _Him_ they ask for investment advice."

"I'm sensing a little sibling rivalry here, buddy." Eddie says between his gritted teeth, trying not to look at the road. If this were a firing squad, at least he'd have a blindfold.

"Sibling rivalry? _Sibling rivalry?_" Monty brakes hard and abruptly as a traffic light changes, and Eddie's thrown forward against the pull of his seatbelt with a small breathless _oomph_. "Thank you for making light of my family woes with a hackneyed cliché, dude. That's lovely, that is."

"Look," Eddie says in a reasonable tone, holding one placating hand out towards Monty. "I meant no disrespect. Families can twist your head around, I get that." He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. "I mean, you should meet mine; they're a complete train wreck. They're so scary, I haven't been back for a visit in six years." He drops his hand on Monty's shoulder and gives it a friendly squeeze.

Monty sighs, the tension ebbing from him a little. "Families," he says in a calmer voice. "Can't live with them, can't put them in a box and ship them to Paraguay." He trades a sympathetic glance aside with Eddie.

"Damn postal regulations," Eddie agrees with a rueful grin and another shoulder squeeze.

***************

They arrive on the scene only minutes later—but in one piece, much to Eddie's relief. By that time, constables have corralled curious onlookers well away from a dingy alleyway and have finished taking witness statements, which one of them hands to Monty with a respectful, "Here you are, Inspector Pippin, sir."

"What've we got?" Eddie peers over Monty's shoulder, then down the narrow alley.

"One Harold Beecher, beaten unconscious and left bound with duct tape in this very alleyway, who is now in hospital being treated for a concussion and several broken ribs." Monty flips pages, then lets out a soft _ha_ of discovery. "Mr. Beecher has previously been convicted of two counts of possession with intent to distribute and one count of assault. Today he was found with," Monty gives a low whistle, "eleven and a half kilograms of cocaine in his coat."

Eddie frowns and shakes his head. "If this was a deal gone wrong, why was the blow still on him?"

"Ah, you'll love that bit. Witnesses say a man in a bright red suit leapt from the fire escape onto the victim," Monty checks the notes, "shouting 'now you shall pay for your wickedness'." His voice curls around the quotation with an inflection that somehow makes it seem even more ludicrous. Eddie wishes he could figure out how Brits do that.

"Seriously?" Eddie eyes his partner skeptically. He starts down the alley, scanning the pavement at his feet and peering assessingly up at the fire escape, Monty following along in his wake. "Who talks like that?"

Monty shrugs. "The witnesses went on to add that the red suited man punched the victim unconscious, then bound him with the tape and spray painted 'Vermillion Vigilante' on his chest—obviously in very small letters." Monty snorts softly, and Eddie snickers along with him. Because really, _vermillion vigilante_? "Then he stopped to pick up some litter about _here_," Monty taps the ground beside them with his foot, "and disappeared into the shadows...," Monty glances at his notes again, "heroically." He looks back up at Eddie with a wry twist of his lips. "How exactly one disappears into the shadows _heroically_ is a mystery of its own."

Eddie grins at him, then rewinds the evidence in his brain a bit. "Wait. Did you really say he stopped to _pick up some litter_ on his heroic way into the shadows?"

"Yes." Monty nods gravely at him, utterly deadpan. "Two beer bottles, a crisp packet, and a torn shopping bag, I believe."

Eddie tilts his head a bit and squints at the grungy but litter-free pavement, as though that will make the whole thing more sensible. It really doesn't. "It's not just the cows that are mad over here. You people know that, right?"

"Mark my words," Monty says sagely, "this has something to do with love. Insanity always does."

Eddie snorts derisively at him. "Because you know all about love, Mr. I-pretend-to-be-married-so-I-can-go-to-swinger-parties-and have-sex-without-the-slightest-threat-of-commitment."

"Dude!" Monty huffs in indignation, his hair bouncing a bit and swinging into one eye, which ruins the severity of the effect just a little. "Just because I enjoy the occasional hour of bliss unencumbered by outmoded social strictures does _not_ mean I've never had a serious relationship."

Eddie cocks his head dubiously at his partner. "You know catching someone's last name isn't enough to make it a serious relationship, right?"

Monty crosses his arms over his chest. "I am deeply wounded by your low opinion of my emotional depth, Detective Arlette," he counters acerbically.

"Hey, I'm sorry." Eddie raises his hands in surrender. "I was just giving you a hard time. I don't really have a low opinion of your emotional depth at all." He waits until Monty gives him a mollified nod of acceptance, then adds, "I had no idea you _had_ emotional depth."

Monty narrows his eyes and subsequently refuses to translate the first-on-the-scene PC's Yorkshire-accented report for Eddie, who can't understand one word in ten. He lets Eddie spend fifteen minutes on pantomime and speaking very slowly before he deigns to interpret again. But it's totally worth it anyway; it's even more fun to wind up Monty than Fiona, though it's not as easy.

"She says," Monty finally translates grudgingly, "that a man walking his dog three blocks up the street saw our vigilante fleeing the scene and recognized him."

Eddie snorts. "Well, sure. How many guys does he know in red suits who call themselves the Vermillion Vigilante?"

Ignoring him, Monty goes on, "The eyewitness identified him as Archibald Aldridge—known to his co-workers as Archie. Says he's an accountant working at the firm of Blake, Brahms, Hollister, and Farnaby, which is in this neighborhood three streets up." Monty indicates a westward direction with a nod of his head.

"Which is naturally closed for the holidays." Eddie sighs.

Monty flourishes a scrap of paper with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. "But his home address is only six blocks away."

"Hallelujah," Eddie says feelingly. "Let's go."

***************

Archie Aldridge's flat, Eddie thinks, is the home equivalent of an office cubicle. It's tiny, shabby, generic, and utterly depressing. If it weren't for the extensive collection of old movies giving it a bit of a personal touch, the whole place would look very like a cheap hotel room.

"The wallpaper alone would be enough to send anyone barking," Monty opines, eyeing the aggressively neutral print in shades of grey and taupe with a pained frown.

Eddie nods in agreement. "When Archie gets his day in court, he needs to pass around pictures of this to the jury. I'd buy temporary insanity after seeing this place."

Monty peers into the bedroom. "There's a hodgepodge of acrobatics and karate medals in here. That may explain quite a bit."

"Hodgepodge," Eddie snorts. "Like that's even a real word."

"Hodgepodge," Monty returns primly. "A noun meaning collection or jumble."

"I know what it _means_. I'm just saying, it doesn't even _sound_ like a real word. It's like 'stroppy' and 'brouhaha'. You people just make this stuff up."

"If you are, in fact, accusing the English of making up English words, I'd say you're onto something there, Eddie." Monty smirks at him smugly.

At moments like this, Eddie suspects rather strongly that maybe Monty enjoys winding him up, too. He's just working on formulating a good response to get some of his own back when Monty's phone rings.

"Dude," Monty says, after listening for a moment. "Someone's just called in a report of a red-suited man chasing a purse-snatcher down the street not five minutes from here."

"If this is a coincidence, I'm going home," Eddie mutters darkly, though of course he wouldn't.

***************

They actually have no trouble finding Archie Aldridge. They spot his bright red costume from two blocks away as he bends to wrap more duct tape around a bound figure at his feet. Monty pulls up with a squeal of tires, and they both leap out of the car and after Archie, who takes off like a rabbit with a firecracker tied to its tail.

Eddie pounds jarringly along the road, the cold air burning in his lungs. He's no sprinter, but he considers himself respectably fast. Archie, though, has got some serious speed. It's with more than a little relief that Eddie sees a police car coming the opposite way towards them as they chase Archie onto an overpass. Archie hesitates a split second at the sight of the swiftly oncoming car, then leaps lightly up to balance on the railing. Eddie and Monty skid to a halt as their quarry teeters on the brink, and the police car cautiously stops several yards away.

"All right, Archie," Eddie says soothingly, his arms up in a conspicuously nonthreatening gesture. "Let's all relax here. No one needs to do anything hasty. Why don't you come down from there so we can talk?"

"You'll have me in handcuffs the second I come down," Archie pants raggedly. "I don't have time to go to jail. Not now."

Eddie nods agreeably. "Okay. You're in control here, Archie," he reassures. "How about if I promise that there won't be any handcuffs if you come down? We'll stay all the way over here; nobody'll touch you."

Archie regards them suspiciously. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"My name is Detective Eddie Arlette, and this is my partner, Inspector Monty Pippin. We're here to help you. I know you don't know me, Archie, but I swear you can trust me. I always keep my word."

"It's true," Monty confirms, giving Eddie an unexpected rush of warmth at his partner's unhesitating faith. "He really does."

Archie looks back and forth between them measuringly, then over his shoulder at the drop behind him. "All right," he finally says. "I'll come down, but I'm staying by the rail. Keep your distance, or I'll jump," he warns.

"Okay," Eddie sighs, relieved. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Monty rock his weight back off of his toes, relaxing his stance a little.

Archie climbs cautiously off the railing, watching them warily the whole time. He reaches the ground and waits a moment, but no one moves towards him. "You wanted to talk," he finally says. "So talk."

"Look, I understand you're trying to do a good thing here," Eddie says reasonably. "But you have to leave catching criminals to the police. I've seen vigilante justice before, and someone always ends up getting hurt. Usually the vigilante."

"I understand that," Archie insists earnestly. "I do. But it's a risk I have to take." He glances over the side of the overpass as he says the word 'risk', and Eddie figures maybe it's a good time to try a different tack.

"So, you call yourself the Vermillion Vigilante." Eddie raises his eyebrows and indicates Archie's red suit with a jerk of his chin. "What's up with that?"

"Well, I'm a vigilante," Archie says, like he's talking to a slow child. "And vermillion's the only color that starts with 'v'. I'd look a right fool as the _azure_ vigilante."

"Violet," Eddie tells him, deciding to ignore the more nonsensical parts of the man's statement.

"Verdant," Monty chimes in. "Means green, like grass," he adds aside to Eddie.

"Cute," Eddie grumbles at his partner, who blinks back at him blandly, the very picture of innocent solicitude. Eddie turns his head back to their fugitive. "What we're getting at here, Archie, is that it's not the stealthiest color in the world for a vigilante." He shoots a sidelong glance over at Monty again. "Stealthiest," he adds dryly. "Means sneaky. Like very sneaky people."

Monty's mouth twitches, but he lets this pass without any more comment than a slight, gracious yielding gesture with one long-fingered hand.

"Plus, you stayed in your own neighborhood and didn't even wear a mask. It's almost like you wanted to get caught." Eddie continues, looking hard at Archie, who shifts uncomfortably. "Talk to us here, okay? We can't help you unless you do."

"Maybe I did," Archie sighs, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. He sighs, blinking as though the light is too bright. "Want to get caught, I mean. I don't know."

"You gotta give me more to go on than that, Archie," Eddie insists. "Tell us why you'd do something like this."

"Psychoactive drugs, perhaps," supplies Monty helpfully. "Or traumatic flashbacks to the murder of your parents in an alleyway mugging gone wrong."

Archie frowns at Monty in confusion. "But my parents are alive and well and living in Surrey."

"Just a for instance," Eddie says, resisting the urge to grin at Monty. "Never mind your parents. Why'd you do it, Archie?"

Archie looks down at his feet, his whole posture taking on a dejected cast. "Janine," he mumbles.

"Told you so," Monty mutters under his breath.

Eddie ignores his partner and slumps down a bit, trying to recapture eye contact. "Who's Janine?"

"We worked together at this firm where I do accounting." Archie clasps his hands together, his fingers knitting together and apart, together and apart. "For six years, three months, and seven days. I knew she was the most radiant person I'd ever meet, right from the first day. I always meant to tell her how I feel." His hands stop fidgeting restlessly and curl into fists."Three weeks ago, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer." His face is totally still, yet somehow suddenly steeped in grief despite the lack of change in any of its lines, a subtle trick of geometry and shadows that owes nothing to the wintery sunlight.

Eddie blows out his breath sharply and grimaces in sympathy. "That's hard. I can't imagine what that must be like for you. It's really terrible, and I'm sorry." He lets the moment draw out into a small measure of respectful silence before adding gently, "But I'm not seeing exactly what that's got to do with the Vermillion Vigilante. Help me out, here."

"Janine's such a good person," Archie tells him earnestly. "Does loads of charity work, feeds strays, that kind of thing. She always wanted the world to be better than it is. Two weeks ago, when I was visiting her in hospital, she said that she wouldn't mind dying so much if she could be sure that she was leaving the world better than she found it." Archie shrugs helplessly. "How could I not try to give her that?"

"And was the lovely Miss Janine suitably impressed?" Monty asks.

Archie twitches a bit. "Well. I haven't told her yet. The doctors say she has a couple of months left, and I wanted to wait until I finished cleaning up the neighborhood to say anything."

"I get that, Archie," Eddie assures him. "You're losing someone you love, and you feel like you need to do this for her, maybe make the time she has left easier. But I'm sure she wouldn't want you to put yourself or anyone else in danger." He holds out a hand to Archie slowly. "If she were here, I think she'd tell you that you need to give yourself up before something really bad happens."

Archie looks at Eddie's outstretched hand and sighs. "You make a good argument, Detective Arlette," he says.

"Please, call me Eddie." Eddie smiles at him encouragingly. "I kept my promise, right? So trust me a little further and come with us. There's nothing more you can do here, and I don't think you really want to jump."

Archie gives him a faint, regretful smile. "Sorry, Eddie," he says wistfully, like he really means it. "I'm afraid I can't do that yet."

And then he turns and leaps into a fluid, graceful vault right over the railing of the overpass, falling to land with a thump on the top of a double decker bus just passing below.

"Lucky bugger," Monty breathes in shocked awe, gaping as Archie skitters briefly across the roof of the bus, then improbably manages to cling to the top like a limpet.

Eddie stares blankly after the bus as it speeds off down the road. "That did _not_ just happen."

"Definitely not," Monty agrees firmly. "Glad we've got that sorted."

They stare at the swiftly disappearing bus for another moment before Eddie adds, "That hodgepodge of acrobatics and karate medals in his bedroom? Yeah, I'm thinking those are his."

"Excellent deduction," Monty congratulates him. "Nice to see your keen police instincts coming to the fore. Work that out by yourself, did you?"

"Shut up," Eddie retorts, with a light cuff at Monty's shoulder. "I have an idea."

***************

"You realize he may wait until he's rid the entire neighborhood of crime before he comes here," Monty complains after the second hour of sitting in his car, which currently commands an excellent view of the front of the hospital across the street, where one Janine Richards is a patient.

Eddie shrugs, fiddling idly with a matchbook emblazoned with the logo of the coffee shop down the street. "He's not at home, he's not at work, he's not on the top of any bus anymore. If he's got family or friends, we've got no record of it. At least we know he'll come here eventually."

Monty glaces at his watch. "It's five o'clock on Christmas Eve, dude. Unless you have a firmer timeframe than _eventually_, I say we leave the surveillance to less fortunate men. I'm supposed to be having family dinner in an hour." He takes on a slightly pinched look with the last sentence.

"You go on," Eddie tells him, reaching to open the door beside himself. "My place is full of Nigel and Fiona's friends tonight. That's not something I need to see. I'll hang around here a little longer."

Monty seizes his arm firmly before he can get out of the car. "Eddie," he says in a tone which brooks no argument, "don't be ridiculous. I am _not_ leaving you alone on a cold street corner on Christmas Eve."

Eddie glances down at the hand on his arm and smiles softly, a little bemused and more touched than he wants to let on. "I'll head home in a few hours, once the happy couple and their friends have cleared out. I'll be fine," Eddie reassures him.

"Yes," Monty agrees. "You will be. Because you're coming home with me," he declares with finality, turning to start the car.

"Hey, wait," Eddie objects weakly, but he doesn't actually try to get out of the car before Monty pulls away from the curb and into traffic. "I appreciate the thought," he says, "but I don't want to intrude on your family dinner or anything."

Monty snorts. "Please," he says. "You'll be doing me a favor. Sometimes they restrain themselves in the presence of witnesses, and Audrey refuses to go with me anymore. Besides, my father likes you."

"Well, okay," Eddie allows. "If you're sure." He looks at Monty's profile thoughtfully as the passing streetlights paint mysterious patterns of light and shadow across it. "Come to think of it, this could be interesting," he muses, half to himself. "I've always kind of wondered if you come by your weirdness honestly."

***************

Eddie studies Monty's mom across the dining table and, aside from the color of her eyes, he can't see the relation. She's earnest and intense and almost painfully sincere, not cavalier like Monty at all. From the moment Eddie was introduced to Agatha Pippin, she's been bending his ear about practically every worthy cause he's ever heard of, all of which she seems to be actively involved in and deeply passionate about. But then she starts on a tirade about cruelty to animals, and yeah, _there's_ the resemblance. _Huh_, Eddie thinks to himself, regarding his partner speculatively out of the corner of his eye. How many more of Agatha's idealist principles lurk under that usual air of nonchalance? Eddie has already learned that the count is higher than he suspected the first day they met.

"And that's the sort of thing our Tom will be looking into when he goes to Parliament," Agatha concludes, beaming proudly at her elder son.

Next to Eddie, Monty twitches almost imperceptibly.

Tom opens his mouth, but his father beats him to the punch. "I'm sure our Tom will see what he can do about the animals after he takes care of more serious issues. He's going to have plenty of things to set right; you can't expect him to put the needs of a few strays above real concerns."

Monty twitches again, harder.

Agatha draws herself up ramrod straight in her chair. "Do you mean to imply," she demands, "that cruelty to animals is not a vital issue to all people of good conscience? Would you rather he spent his time trying to pass more tax loopholes that only benefit the wealthiest ten percent of the population?"

Bernard Pippin flushes blotchily. "I didn't see you complaining when the dividends of those loopholes paid for this house, not to mention for all your meditation retreat weekends," he fumes at his wife.

"Dad," Tom manages to interject smoothly, "of course I plan to address _every_ issue of concern to my future constituency. And naturally I appreciate your faith in my priorities, but I'm sure I'll be able to make time for the animals. No rest for the wicked, after all." He favors his mother with a diplomatic smile, and Eddie can see why the guy got involved in politics.

Agatha and Bernard glare at each other from opposite ends of the dining table, as though it's a crystal and flatware strewn battlefield between them.

"So, Monty," Bernard finally says, breaking his standoff with his wife and changing the subject with forced joviality, "How are you fixed for money, son?"

"Fine," Monty answers tightly. "Absolutely fine, Dad. No worries." Eddie is close enough to notice that a muscle in Monty's jaw is jumping.

"Are you still living in that dinky little flat with that girl Audrey?" Agatha breaks in. "Tom knows a number of excellent realtors; I'm sure he could set you up with something more congenial."

"Of course I'm always happy to lend a hand to my little brother," Tom agrees. "Which reminds me, we're looking for a new media spokesman for my campaign, if you'd—"

Monty makes a small, strangled noise that Eddie is pretty sure no one can hear but him, and hurries to interrupt. "No, thank you, Mum, Tom," he manages. "I'm quite happy with my dinky little flat and my work at Scotland Yard."

"If you're sure, dear," Agatha says, looking unconvinced.

"You're making the boy uncomfortable," Bernard thunders from the other end of the table. "With you smothering him like that, it's a wonder he isn't a complete poof."

"_I'm_ making him uncomfortable?" Agatha retorts icily. "I'm not the one who can't be supportive about his lifestyle. _You_ wouldn't even speak to that boy Martin he brought home."

Eddie chokes on his bite of roast turkey. Beside him, Monty's gone utterly still, not even twitching anymore. He _wants_ to give Monty a little respectful space by looking away, but he really, really can't. It's suddenly totally fascinating the way Monty's rapid pulse is visible in his throat, fluttering desperately beneath the skin like it's trying to escape. And Eddie's mind flashes back to Monty saying casually, 'I think I'm attracted to you'. What if Monty wasn't only trying to wind him up that time? What if there was actually a grain of seriousness beneath that light tone?

But Monty's parents don't seem to notice anything is amiss. "Oh, you think we should _encourage_ him, do you?" Bernard snarls. "It might be another thing if he were really homosexual. It might even play well with some of Tom's voters. But if he's going to sit on the damn fence, we may as well push him to bring home a nice, suitable girl."

"You and your narrow bourgeois sensibilities!" Agatha snaps. "The rest of the world can go hang as long as you've got a cup of milky tea and your Bentley. If you really cared about our son as an individual, you'd try to pry that narrow mind of yours open further than a measly little crack."

Eddie pretty much stops listening to them at that point. He lets the tide of fury wash over his head senselessly. It's all a sea of shouting and recriminations, and he's really more interested in his ashen-faced partner, who isn't looking at him at all. Watching the elder Pippins tear at each other while Perfect Tom tries in vain to make peace between them, it suddenly strikes Eddie that his partner's shell game of a personality is starting to make a lot more sense to him.

Monty jumps as his phone rings. "Excuse me," he mutters quietly, slipping out of his chair and making quickly for the door.

"Me too," Eddie says, though he doubts anyone's listening. He takes the same door, and finds himself in a dim foyer, a massive staircase with gleaming wooden balustrades on his left. Monty sits on one of the lower stairs with his phone up to his ear.

"We're on our way," he's saying. "Do not approach Aldridge unless he tries to leave." He clicks his phone shut and looks up at Eddie with a carefully blank expression. "Guess who went to visit Janine Richards," he says casually.

"Ha! Told you so," Eddie gloats. He offers his hand to Monty, who stares at it for a split second before taking it. He pulls his partner up, giving him a clap on the back as he rises. "Let's just leave a note on the door," he suggests kindly. "So we don't disturb anyone."

***************

Eddie lets the car fill with silence for the first ten minutes of the drive; apart from a few half-hearted quips, Monty's unusually quiet. Eddie's torn between the urge to have a meaningful conversation about this evening and concern for his partner. Monty's compressed lips don't seem to indicate any desire for discussion at all. But then Eddie figures, hey, it was the British who came up with the saying 'in for a penny, in for a pound', right?

He decides to start with one of the easier subjects on his mind. "So, why'd you join Scotland Yard, anyway?"

Monty shoots him a surprised glance and shrugs noncommitally. "It's exciting. You know how I hate to be bored."

"Uh huh." Eddie regards him skeptically. "And that's the only reason?"

Monty purses his lips thoughtfully. "Well, you have to admit that it sounds very sexy when a girl asks one what one does."

Eddie quashes the impulse to ask if Monty uses his job to impress men, too. One thing at a time. "Sexier than a rich playboy with a collection of vintage cars?" he asks instead, squinting dubiously at his partner. "So, it hasn't got anything to do with serving and protecting people at all?"

Monty shrugs again, one hand coming up to card through his hair, conveniently hiding his face from Eddie. "I suppose that's a fringe benefit," he allows.

"Right," Eddie says with a grin, unconvinced. He's met Monty's mother now, after all. "Move along, no altruism to see here."

Monty rewards him with the barest curl at the corner of his lips, the slight suggestion of a smile. "I'm positive I don't know what you're rabbiting on about," he insists.

"Sure," Eddie agrees easily, but his tone is plainly disbelieving.

"I don't," Monty repeats, but his lips curve up a little more.

Eddie chuckles and reaches over to pat his shoulder. Something in Monty's posture eases, the tightness relaxing into something closer to his usual nonchalance. Eddie finds himself more pleased by this than he would have expected.

***************

Sure enough, they find two PCs loitering watchfully down the hall from Janine Richards' room, inconspicuously blocking off access to both the stairs and the lifts.

Peering in the open door, they can clearly see Archie, sitting in a chair beside the bed. A thin, wan woman lies sleeping there; her closed eyes look almost bruised.

Eddie lifts a hand to knock on the doorframe quietly. "Hey, Archie," he says quietly.

"Hello, Eddie." Archie doesn't look up. "I knew you'd come eventually."

"Are you ready to go with us quietly? You know we have to take you in."

"I know," Archie answers with a sigh. "I just...I had to see her first. I had to tell her what I was trying to do for her."

"I'm glad you got the chance. That's good." Eddie moves into the room, coming to stand beside Archie. "Did you get to say everything you needed to?"

Archie finally looks up at that, a bitter twist to his mouth. "Do you really think that's possible, Detective?"

"No," Eddie replies, looking at the fragile face of the woman on the bed. There's still an echo of prettiness to her, though Eddie is sure that illness has leached most of it away. She looks like she's made of sharp bones and wax paper. "No," he repeats. "But I'd like to think it _is_ possible to say the most important things while there's still time."

"So would I," Archie agrees wearily. He leans down to press a reverent kiss to the back of the hand he holds, as another man might kiss a holy relic of his faith. "I told her what she means to me, and what I did. That's something."

"And what did she say?" Eddie asks.

"She said no one ever tried to change the world for her before. She said she wished I'd told her how I feel about her years ago." Archie gives Eddie a faint, watery smile. "She said I should give myself up before something awful happens to me."

"She's a smart lady," Eddie tells him. "And she obviously wants what's best for you. Listen," he says, looking at Archie and Janine's joined hands. "I'll do everything I can to make sure you get out on bail as fast as possible so you can be here with her for whatever time she has left."

"Thank you," Archie whispers, his voice choked.

"Of course." Eddie nods at him. "We'll wait outside while you tell Janine you need to go for a bit, all right?"

***************

Monty rolls his neck until it pops faintly and lets out a sigh. "So, that's that, I suppose," he says, nodding at the officers leading Archie gently away.

"Looks like," Eddie agrees.

"You're quite good with this sort of thing, you know," Monty observes vaguely.

"Thanks," Eddie replies, surprised into a warm smile.

"No problem," Monty says offhandedly, with half a shrug. "Credit where it's due and all that."

Monty looks away, and Eddie wonders if he ought to stop smiling at his partner, but he really doesn't want to. "So," he starts, mostly for something to say. "You heading back to family dinner?"

Monty shudders. "Not on a dare," he mutters. "Let them think the case took all night. I'm going home."

"Hey, wait, no." Eddie reaches out to wrap his hand around Monty's elbow. "_You_ didn't leave _me_ alone on a cold street corner on Christmas Eve. Look, Fiona and Nigel will have cleared out by now. The least I can do is bring you home with me and let you help me eat whatever party leftovers we can scrounge. They're probably vegan, but nothing's perfect."

Monty looks down at the hand on his arm, then slowly up at Eddie. Some inscrutable gears appear to be turning behind his eyes. "All right," he finally concedes. "But I'm not eating anything with tofu in."

"You and me both," Eddie laughs.

***************

About an hour later they're leaning comfortably against the kitchen counter, poking through some candied fruit and eggless cookies. Eddie expects there to be more tension, but oddly there just isn't. It feels perfectly natural to be here with his partner, snacking and bickering pleasantly over who deserves the few remaining chocolates. It takes Eddie a little while to place that warm sensation in his chest as happiness. He's been feeling it more and more often since he came to London, but it still startles him.

_Huh_, he thinks to himself. _Who'd've guessed it?_ Maybe it's a bit late in his life to be revisiting his sexual orientation; he hasn't really thought about it much since some experimentation in college, and that had mostly ended messily anyway. Then again, considering the disastrous brunette who got him sent to London in the first place—and other such romantic mishaps, because she might be the worst, but actually not by all that much—he couldn't really say that his relationships with women tended to end all that much better.

_And happiness_, he reflects, _is happiness_. He doesn't want to be Archie, regretting all the things he couldn't find the guts to say while he had time.

So he remarks idly, as he chews a roasted cashew, "You know, I used to have a theory that maybe you had a really tragic affair in your past that made you twitchy about being burned again, but that isn't it, is it? No, after seeing your parents, your fear of commitment is starting to make a lot more sense."

Monty blinks at him, clearly not expecting this, before he remembers to be indignant. "I'm not _afraid_ of commitment," he retorts tartly.

"_Sure_ you aren't," Eddie snorts at him. "Tell you what I think, I think you need to man up and attempt an adult relationship. You can't let the fear of turning into your parents keep you running forever."

Monty opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He blinks some more, then tilts his head to the side quizzically. "Are you trying to chat me up?" he finally asks.

"Nah," Eddie says lightly. "Unless it's working, in which case I might be."

Monty laughs, looking a bit stunned but not at all displeased. "Smooth, Eddie," he chuckles. "I'm powerless before your charms." He says this as if he's trying to be casual, but Eddie's practiced ear can detect an underlying note of seriousness there.

"Yeah?" Eddie grins at him and leans a little closer until his elbow rests easily against Monty's. He takes a deep breath, and realizes that he did not notice until this moment that he already knew that Monty always smells of pears, slightly sweet and tart. The scent is already comfortably familiar, and he decides he likes that. "Good to know," he says, with a light nudge of his elbow. "You realize I'm not going to let you get away with any of that playing the field crap with me, right?"

Monty swallows hard once, but returns Eddie's half-serious half-playful tone gamely. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you," he says with a roll of his eyes. "Just because I don't subscribe to the Puritanical notion that all sexual contact must take place within the confines of a committed relationship and consequently have an active and varied sex life, that does _not_ mean that I'm a tramp incapable of a serious relationship." He gives Eddie's elbow a return nudge. "Really, dude. I _have_ managed monogamy once or twice before, you know."

"Good," Eddie sighs in satisfaction. "Glad we're on the same page there." He grins at Monty, wide and happy, and is delighted when this makes Monty grin right back at him. "But look," he adds mock-sternly, "I have to put my foot down on one more thing. We aren't ending up making out under the mistletoe. That idea's really been run into the ground."

Monty looks over his shoulder at the mistletoe hanging above the door and tsks softly. "Hmm, yes. It does have a certain saccharine banality to it." Monty looks speculatively around the flat. "There isn't any mistletoe over the couch," he offers, in an ostentatiously neutral tone that's belied by a slight hoarseness around the edges.

"Well," Eddie says gently, reaching out to hook his fingers in Monty's collar and pull him towards the couch in question. "That's all right, then." He lets himself fall back onto the couch, dragging Monty down on top of him. They land in a tangled heap on the cushions, warm weight pressing so deliciously into Eddie that he arches against Monty instinctively and slides a possessive arm around his waist.

_Damn_, Eddie thinks to himself a little dizzily as Monty licks his mouth slowly open, _Christmas **rocks**_. He wraps a hand firmly around the base of Monty's skull, fingers threading through the fall of silky hair to span that curve of bone, his thumb stroking at the soft skin behind Monty's ear. It's good leverage to alter the angle of the kiss just slightly so that he can thrust his tongue deeper into Monty's willing mouth, feeling like he's chasing some elusive flavor masked by the heady sweetness of candied apricots.

Yeah, this Christmas? Definitely a vast improvement on any Eddie can remember.


End file.
